


A Little Night Music

by Kagutsuchi



Category: Poldark (TV 2015)
Genre: Awkwardness, Drunken Flirting, F/M, Francis is a good friend and a surprisingly good wingman, Meet-Cute, two lonely people being alone together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-16
Updated: 2016-12-16
Packaged: 2018-09-08 21:57:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8864371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kagutsuchi/pseuds/Kagutsuchi
Summary: George Warleggan attends his first assembly intending to avoid keeping company with anyone other than his good friend Francis Poldark, but despite his best efforts, he finds himself quite alone with a certain Miss Elizabeth Chynoweth.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Elizabeth’s 16/17 here (that’s when she met Ross according to the show), so I think Ross would be about 20 and Francis and George would be 18. In the books, Francis and Ross are actually the same age with George being one year older and Elizabeth four years younger but I’m going with their apparent ages on the show.

The Assembly Rooms were large but not grand, and filled with the warm glow of copious candlelight for the occasion. This was a step up from the many small parties at his country seat in Cardew, organized by his uncle with an eye for advancement. No name passed muster without a title or a hefty pedigree, though snubs in the early days were frequent and unapologetic. This invitation was dearly bought but richly deserved, like every other recent enterprise in the Warleggan name.

George had never seen so many young women his age in one place, and they startled like frightened birds at the incursion of young men into their midst, reforming around them just as quickly after their customary murmur of appraisal. He did not relish the thought of submitting himself for their inspection and decided he would do everything in his power to forgo it if it could be avoided tonight. Let them sit in judgment on the matter of his slightly frayed waistcoat on some future occasion, perhaps only a few months from now, when he knew it would not be half so shabby. He’d gone to great pains to ensure his tailcoat, at least, appeared elegant enough from a middle distance - so that was where he would stay.

“What are you skulking over here for, George?” The warmth of the hand on his shoulder alerted him to the presence of his friend Francis Poldark, well-attired in dark green and off-white and already agreeably flushed in the cheeks with a glass of port in hand. He offered George one from the tray of a passing footman, which he politely declined.

“I am simply admiring the view.”

“Surely you’d need a spyglass to see anything worthwhile from this distance.”

“A man of discretion would not.” Francis raised his eyebrows in mock surprise and grinned at George’s half-smile. He clapped him on the shoulder and waded deeper into the press of young people, undaunted by the rustle of silks and satins that enveloped him and the whispers behind fans that followed in his wake.

George remained on the margins for a time without fixating on anything in particular until he noticed a slight shift in the crowd and a growing hush centered around the clear, lilting glissando of a lone harp. The player was a dark-haired silhouette in mauve and gold against the white wainscoting of the wall beyond. A light and airy sonatina, deceptively complex despite the ease with which she coaxed it from the strings, was followed by a longer, stately piece he recognized as the work of Handel.

“I imagine you’ll be wanting that spyglass now.” George jerked his head away from the harpist to see Francis at his side again. His approach had entirely escaped his notice. “You’re going to bore a hole into the poor girl like that. I don’t think you blinked once since she started that last piece.”

“Who is she?”

The brightness in Francis’ eyes dimmed a little. “Elizabeth Chynoweth. Ross’ favorite.”

“Is she? I hadn’t heard.” George schooled his expression into one of neutral indifference. “Where is Ross? Were he here, I’m sure he wouldn’t wish to miss such a performance.”

“He wouldn’t set foot in the Assembly Rooms for all the tin in Cornwall. And I doubt my Uncle Joshua would make him do so if he saw no need.”

George declined to comment, tempting as it was to speculate aloud how Ross Poldark might be spending his evening instead. Elizabeth had finished her final piece and disappeared into the crowd.

“I think some refreshment is well overdue. Wait for me here, would you, Francis?” Francis nodded and George made his way across the room towards the sumptuous spread of food and drink, ostensibly to acquire a glass of port, his real object being seeking the attentions of Elizabeth Chynoweth - although to what end, he couldn’t say. It occurred to him that in doing so, he risked the very judgment of the county gentry he’d been carefully evading all evening, but found he was surprisingly unshaken by the prospect. It would seem that if Ross Poldark were not here to make a spectacle of himself, George must do so in his place.

As he made his way back, glass in hand, he caught sight of Elizabeth in conversation with Ruth Teague and quickly slipped behind one of the many ample columns in the Assembly Hall nearby. His sudden bout of recklessness had given him the courage to pass within close quarters of the crowd, but it did not extend quite so far as to brave the sharp-tongued disdain of the Teague girls.

“The _Warleggan_ boy is here tonight.” Her lips curled around the name distastefully, as if she’d swallowed a mouthful of gravel.

“Who?”

“You have not heard tell of him?”

“I have not, and in fact know nothing of the family. I am quite isolated at Cusgarne, you see, and would dearly like to take up residence elsewhere.”

“What is there to know of them, truly? Theirs is an inelegant name but one generation removed from the forge of their grandfather. A blacksmith, they say. They make their money primarily in banking now, but blood will out and I cannot imagine it has staying power.”

“Is it truly so unfathomable, Miss Teague?” Even from here he could see a certain glint of mischief in her expression beyond the play of flickering candlelight across her dark eyes. “Do you know the meaning of my last name?”

Ruth narrowed her eyes in suspicion. “I do not make it my business to commit to memory the entire history of families beyond my own, no.”

“Perhaps you should. It might prove more useful to you than whatever it is you do commit to memory.” Her tone was innocent enough, but her meaning was all too clear and Ruth’s eyes widened in indignation.

“’New House.’ That is the meaning of Chynoweth, founded in the 9th century. All houses were new at some point, and not all of them stand the test of time, but the simple fact of a family name’s novelty is no guarantor of its imminent dissolution.” She inclined her head in Ruth Teague’s direction and left her standing there, mouth slightly ajar.

George loitered behind the column until the crowd opened up to make way for a gavotte, at which point he hastened across the floor towards the back of the room where Francis stood, blinking languidly at the procession of giggling young ladies whose feather fascinators and lace trimmings frothed about the edge of the ballroom floor like sea foam.

“It’s all so much sand on the shore once you’ve set eyes on a pearl, is it not?”

George feigned ignorance. “To whom are you referring?”

“Come now, George, give the lady her due. You owe her that much after staring at her for the last hour. There was little else to see from behind that conveniently situated column.”

He flushed slightly and continued to nurse his single glass of port. “Truth be told, I made myself scarce in order to evade the pleasure of a certain Miss Teague’s company. It was a happy coincidence that Miss Chynoweth wandered into my line of sight as well, and I admit she is quite striking.”

Francis scoffed. “You do her a disservice. She is the prettiest girl in all of Cornwall and my cousin is the luckiest man. There is no formal undertaking between them as of yet but I still cannot bring myself to approach her out of respect for him. You, however, need not consider his feelings as I gather there is no love lost between you. Why not ask her for a dance?”

“You mistake me, Francis. I am more than content to be a spectator.”

“Even more content than you are less than honest?” George smiled and shook his head.

“I think I will take some air. The Assembly Rooms are rather stifling even without the Teagues in close proximity. May I find you later?”

Francis sighed and shrugged. “Of course. I will stay here and suffocate willingly in your stead.”

George made his way to the balcony upstairs that looked out over all of Truro. A wrack of clouds veiled the better part of a meager crescent’s worth of moonlight and under the stillness of a night without stars, little stirred beyond the distant clamor of the rooms below. The assembly had been a failure by all accounts. He would have to lie to his uncle about his efforts, having made no conversation with anyone of repute aside from Francis, with whom he’d had a friendly rapport for years he could hardly congratulate himself on now, however grateful and astonished he remained by the fact that he’d ever managed to establish it. Idle chatter was not his strong suit, particularly when he was so keenly aware of the difference in station between himself and his partner. He could not see the value in making an attempt when even his finest clothes alone disqualified him from their company; better to wait for when he had secured a more advantageous position relative to them, either in appearance or substance - preferably both. For now, his uncle could be sufficiently appeased by recounting the nonexistent conversations he had with the most influential names on the guest list, which he attempted to bring to mind now. He recalled with far greater clarity the last few measures of music a pair of fine-boned hands had played not half an hour before.

“Pardon me, I had thought to escape the press of the crowd here. I hope I will not interfere with your own solitude.” Again he heard her before he saw her, close enough to make out the coiled tresses of her deep brown hair threaded through with ribbon, her well-shaped brows and her eyes lit from behind by the candelabra lining the hallway beyond. He could see that they were, in fact, gray-green shot through with a golden brown.

“Not at all.” He bowed and cast about for something more to say, careful not to let his eyes wander over or linger on her overlong. Recovering his composure was made all the more difficult by the subject of his thoughts arriving fully formed in their midst. “How did you end up here all alone?” he asked, rather impertinently he realized only after he’d let the question slip. He had not even introduced himself, but neither had she.

“Only with great difficulty.” She smiled. “I might ask you the same question.” Under other circumstances and from other lips, he might have found such cheek discourteous, but her genuine interest was refreshing, if unsettling. He could not help wondering if this was all a ruse and she merely considered him an object of amusement. That was clearly how she saw Ruth Teague, although he shared her sentiment.

He looked out over the town again, finding it a far simpler prospect than Elizabeth’s searching gaze. “It affords the best view.”

She approached the railing not far to his left and glanced at the silent black harbor. “Of what, in particular? I would have thought a well-traveled gentleman like yourself would have scorned it for lack of a livelier vista.” He peered at her sidelong in the half-light of the corridor, the mauve of her gown a deep purple in the dark, sweeping against the flagstones as she steadied herself against the rail. She was more than a little inebriated, which explained her forthrightness with him. Still, she knew of him somehow. It was an encouraging thought.

“I apologize - I have been unpardonably rude in my lack of introduction and nearly deprived you of your own! I am Elizabeth Chynoweth, and I’m deeply grateful for your patience with my unmannered familiarity.” She attempted a curtsey but caught her foot in the railing and would have fallen had George not caught her around the waist. He let go immediately after she had righted herself and she did not even notice, but an uncanny warmth had spread along the length of his arm and into his chest and against the cool night air, he could feel the blood rising to his cheeks.

“Think nothing of it, ma’am.” He bowed and watched her carefully, lest she slip again, grateful that she could not make out how discomfited he was in the gloom of a nearly moonless night. She settled somewhat precariously against the corner of the balcony railing, facing him. “I am George Warleggan...although you seem to already have acquainted yourself with me...?”

“A Mr. Francis Poldark pointed you out to me earlier, yes. He had a great many good things to say about you.”

“Did he indeed?” His true friends might be few and far between, but he could not be said to choose them unwisely.

“Yes.” Elizabeth nodded, her gaze slightly unfocused. She pivoted where she stood and looked down on the harbor again. “But you still haven’t answered my earlier question - what is there to see here that I might not find in London or Bath, or even Bodmin, especially on a night like tonight?”

“On a night like tonight...” He studied the silent black harbor. “It’s not so much what there is to see as what there is to hear. If you listen closely, you can hear the slap of water against the docks and the bellies of the ships, and the clatter of carriage wheels on the cobblestones. Truro shifts and groans with its own vigor every night, just as the harbor empties out into the greater darkness of the sea and sky beyond. Nothing ever stops moving, not even here. So I can never leave for London for more than a season. There is always too much left to do here.”

“A poet, a tradesman, and a gentleman! How many hats you wear, Mr. Warleggan.” He thought perhaps she had finally made a jest at his expense. He’d been dreading she would ever since she wandered onto the balcony, but one look at the distracting quirk of her lips told him that she was perfectly sincere. “Would that my family’s ancient name had achieved half so much. I envy you, truly. You may go where you wish, when you wish it, whereas my horizon rarely extends beyond Cusgarne’s garden walls.”

He smiled even though she could not see it, which is something he rarely did. “You are all sweetness and light, Miss Chynoweth. Surely a line so long has accomplished plenty of note.”

She laughed aloud, and the clear, high sound of it echoed off the flagstones. “One would think! The prettiest hedgerows in all of Cornwall, to be sure. Even that they must cede to a low-born gardener of no repute.” Her voice grew quieter now. “It falls to me to uphold our legacy. Long may it continue.”

He realized it was not so simple for her, then, as marrying Ross Poldark. It was not surprising given his reputation as something of a gadabout from a long line of gadabouts with little in the way of fortune - a sensible family would not favor the match. And perhaps there was also the matter of where his heart lay too, and if she could ever consider it truly hers. She toyed with the ribbon threaded through her ringlets and stared into the candlelight over his shoulder.

“Are you alright, Miss Chynoweth?” She smiled, one brow quirked upward.

“No one has asked me that all night. I commend you for noticing I am, indeed, not at all well. But that will not do, will it?”

He hoped she would not take offence if he evaded a rhetorical question. “You may leave, you know. Feign some complaint of ill health. Little in the way of heartiness is expected of delicate young ladies. I can escort you, if you like. Though I imagine you have many who would willingly do so in my place, and that is only a credit to your character.”

“And what sort of character would I be, to shirk my duty to my family and society?” George had tried to avoid every sort of discourtesy inherent in an offer of his company to no avail. He must have looked very put out, because she immediately moved to stifle an unladylike guffaw with her handkerchief. “I jest, Mr. Warleggan. I would be grateful for your company and your assistance.”

So he offered her his arm and she took it. Still clumsy with drink, she slipped her fingers into his assured grip, slightly damp with perspiration. They walked downstairs together and whispers followed them across the ballroom floor but for the time being George decided to take no notice. He took her outside to where her carriage was waiting, and she beckoned him closer to speak with him when she was comfortably seated and they were finally alone again.

“They are abominable, are they not?”

“Who, Miss Chynoweth?”

“All of them. And I haven’t a friend among them, not really. I hope we will meet again, as friends, if you wish it. We need not stand on ceremony.”

“And I will remember it.”

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote Elizabeth as a little more openly opinionated, which was the sense I got when she spoke with her mother in the first episode of series 1 about how she didn’t care about reputation and when she spoke with Ross on the cliffs (”You’ll forget me”). When she speaks up in later years, she’s often more careful with her words and more interested in defusing situations and acting as a conciliator (even if it’s clear what her personal opinion is - “She has the courage of her convictions. Which I applaud, even if I seem to disapprove.”) - as when she tells Ruth Treneglos that she does not personally have problems with uppity servants and tries to redirect the conversation at the Christmas party in series 1. But I can see younger Elizabeth as something of a whippersnapper, which is probably part of what attracted Ross to her (indeed, it’s her compassion that always attracts him to her again in later years and vice versa). Also, she's a little drunk in the latter part of the fic, which naturally lowers her inhibitions.


End file.
